Keeping Secrets
by StarfireRocks
Summary: Spencer Reid and Sherlock Holmes have been friends since childhood, and when Spencer gets the news of Sherlock's death, he doesn't believe it - it doesn't make sense. (Classed as Friendship, but really only because any other genre seems a bit ambitious)


**A Sherlock/Criminal Minds crossover, in honour of the return of Season 3 for Sherlock (yay! I get to watch the newest episode tonight!). I really love the idea of Sherlock and Spencer being friends from childhood, so . . . yeah. Thought I'd try my hand at it.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable - honest!**

When the team gets back from the most recent of gruesome cases (an UNSUB who had been cutting off women's appendages and stringing them up in the woods around the local graveyard) exhausted and lacking faith in humanity, Reid finds a thin package on his desk. Instinct makes him glance around the bullpen, as if to spot whoever has delivered it to him, despite the fact that the team has been gone for a week, meaning this package could have been brought to his desk days ago. To no surprise, he doesn't see anyone out of place or suspicious, so he turns his attention to the delivery itself.

He's cautious in opening it, for, in his line of work, he can never be too careful, and tentatively rips open the top of the envelope – for, he sees now, it _is, _in fact, an envelope. Reid peers inside to find three pieces of folded paper, small and thin – two of them are clearly newspaper articles, and the third has the telltale size and vibrant colour of a Post-It note. It's with a frown that he tips the contents onto his table, opting to read the yellow note first.

_Apologies._

_-Mycroft_

Despite the note being short and vague, it succeeds in filling Spencer with a sense of cold dread. Clearly, whatever this is, it's important; otherwise, Mycroft would have texted him, or sent someone to do it for him – it also obviously has something to do with Sherlock, as Mycroft hardly ever contacts him, except in cases of emergency (like that horrible time Spencer had gotten a brief, to the point call telling him about Sherlock's overdose, and the subsequent news of his drug habit) and he rarely signs anything with his full name, preferring to sign the same as his brother, with a simple 'M' or the occasional 'MH'.

The first newspaper clipping he picks up lacks the actual article, providing only the heading and picture. As soon as he reads the heading, Spencer already knows what's coming; and he doesn't like it, nor does he want the details. With disgust, he flings the clipping aside, unable to bear looking at it any longer. It lands on the floor by his feet right side up, the accusing heading glaring up at him.

'**Sherlock Holmes: Detective Fraud?**'

Underneath the caption is a picture of said 'fraud'; Sherlock Holmes, in his hated deerstalker hat, attempting (and failing miserably) to hide his face from the cameras. Spencer knows this picture well – John had sent it to him ages ago, informing him of Sherlock's acute displeasure of his now signature look. Spencer had kept it for blackmail purposes later on; one never knows when having a one-up on Sherlock Holmes will come in handy – but now he has firm plans to destroy every trace of the picture he has, hating what it means.

He's more reluctant in reading the next clipping, which he can already see contains the article, but he does so anyway, needing to know whatever Mycroft has decided he must be informed of. His eyes are drawn to the picture first, where it dominates most of the clipping's space: the front of what he recognizes as St. Bart's (he's lost count of the number of times Sherlock has dragged him there for some experiment or another throughout the years; at least twice every time he's able to make it to London for a visit), a section of pavement cut off by police tape. Spencer unwillingly drags his eyes upwards to read the heading.

'**Blogger Detective Commits Suicide After Reputation Is Ruined!**'

The blood drains from his face as he skims over the following article ("_. . . consulting detective revealed as fraud . . . admitted to being a fake before jumping . . . suspect in kidnapping case . . . how long has Sherlock Holmes been deceiving us all? . . ._) before the paper slips from his numb fingers to float down to the floor. To his vague curiosity, his breathing isn't irregular, and his hands are completely steady. A feeling of cold cloaks around him, yes, but he feels otherwise normal. Shouldn't he feel something stronger? He's just heard that someone who he's been friends with since childhood has killed himself. Shouldn't he be overcome with grief, crying and shivering?

Instead, he feels detached. He's fully aware of his surroundings; Morgan and JJ are crowded around Prentiss's desk, shooting curious looks over at him, while Garcia is coming up from her lair to welcome them back, and Hotch and Rossi are off to the side, discussing something in depth; but Spencer only notices this with something akin to distant interest – like he's watching everything happening on a TV screen.

". . . eid? Hey, Reid! What's up with you, man?"

Spencer blinks up at Morgan owlishly, slightly taken aback with the fact that the other man has managed to approach his desk without him realizing. It's then that he sees that the others have done so as well – so maybe he _is _a little in shock after all. He doesn't say anything, mostly because he doesn't think he can, and partly because there's nothing to say. They hadn't known Sherlock; they don't even know that he _had. _It's not like he's ever spoken about him in front of them before.

Perturbed by his lack of response, Garcia leans closer to him and rests a concerned hand on his shoulder. He flinches at the contact, and she quickly withdraws her hand, all of them looking even more worried than before. JJ bends down to pick something up, and straightens with the paper clippings in her hand. She glances over them quickly, brow puckering in confusion before handing them over to Morgan, who briefly reads them and slams them down onto the desk, ducking his head down so as to see Spencer's blank expression through his hair.

"Did you know him?"

Despite his tense posture and fierce features, Morgan's voice is gentle and cajoling, managing to reach Spencer through his haze of shock. He raises his head minutely to stare at the older agent, seemingly unable to process his words for a second as he struggles to focus.

"He isn't dead."

Spencer's voice is bland, void of emotion – he states it as an unfeeling fact, such as one would say the Earth is round, or that the sun is the centre of the universe; it holds no room for argument. He makes it sound so painstakingly obvious that Morgan even falters for a minute.

"Who, Spence?"

JJ's soft voice washes over him like a comforting blanket, and Spencer turns his head to look at her. Since he seems incapable of answering, JJ sparsely hesitates before laying a gentle hand on Spencer's elbow and lowering herself to his sitting height. Spencer tenses but doesn't shake off her touch, which she takes as an encouraging sign.

"Did you know this Sherlock Holmes?"

She pronounces his name wrong, in an uncertain tone that clearly indicates her inexperience and discomfort with such a strange name. It's this that gets through to Spencer more than anything else.

"_Sher_lock," he says hollowly. "Sherlock Holmes."

JJ looks taken aback by the fact that he actually speaks. She shares a quick look with Hotch, who, in turn, snaps his gaze over to Morgan before moving to stand directly in front of his youngest subordinate. Seemingly more responsive now, Spencer slowly switches his attention to him instead of JJ.

"Reid."

Hotch keeps his voice clear and level, but low and soothing at the same time.

"How do you know an English detective?"

Spencer struggles to clear his head enough to think coherently, pushing the comforting daze away for later. "We met when we were kids. Nine. Or ten. Probably nine. We were at school together. Boarding school. Same class. Only friends were each other."

Though his speech is halting and slightly confusing, they obviously get the gist of the idea, because they all share a knowing look over his head. It irritates Spencer – he _is _right here in front them. He isn't some stupid little kid that doesn't know what's going on.

"Oh, baby cakes, I am so sorry."

This causes Spencer to glance up at Garcia in surprise. "Why?"

He actually laughs (albeit hollowly and humourlessly, but a laugh nonetheless) at their looks of confusion tinged with concern – probably for his mental health, he thinks. "He isn't dead," he repeats firmly, pushing the newspaper clippings away from him, sliding them over to Morgan, who dutifully takes them out of his sight.

"Spence, he threw himself off the roof of a building – there were witnesses." JJ keeps her voice apologetic and comforting, even while she tries to reason with him. "I really don't think -"

Spencer fervently shakes his head, pushing away from his desk and standing, a half-smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. "No. Sherlock isn't dead. He can't be," he insists, almost amused by their disbelief – can't they see? It's so obvious to anyone who knows Sherlock! "It's just not possible. Sherlock would never do anything so . . . . so _boring _as dying! There's got to be an explanation . . ."

He begins to walk away, out of the bullpen without a backwards glance to his gaping team. It's not until he's on the street outside that his mobile alerts him to a text message. He grapples for it in his bag, extracting it with difficulty and hastily opening the newest message.

_Well done. Brilliant deduction. _

It's an unfamiliar number and there's no usual signature at the end, but Spencer knows who it's from all the same. He can practically hear the patronising and sarcastic tone of voice used to deliver the message, despite its text format. So he grins like an idiot (because that's what Sherlock would call it) and punches out a reply.

_How?_

He doesn't get a response, but that's okay, because he hadn't been expecting one anyway – Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be dead, after all. It's not like he needs one, anyway; he can pretty much imagine what he would say: _You're the FBI agent. You figure it out._

So he tries to school his features into a somber expression – because to act that part, you must convince yourself first – and dials John's number, never mind the long distance fees. As it dials, he briefly considers telling the army doctor that Sherlock is not, in fact, dead, (as it is clear that he has been told no such thing - otherwise he surely would've called Spencer before something like _this _happened) but then disregards the idea. Much as he dislikes withholding the information from him, he knows Sherlock must have a good reason for keeping his continued existence from his flatmate, and he will honour his decision, no matter how painful it will be.

John picks up after the first few rings, sounding lifeless-but-pretending-I'm-okay.

"Spencer."

"John."

"So you heard, then."

"Mycroft sent me the articles."

"Right. Sorry. I was going to ring you, but . . ."

"It's okay."

"No, no, it's not. You are – _were_ – his friend too. You . . . You deserve to know what happened."

Spencer purses his lips to keep from ruining everything, sucking in a deep breath through his teeth and counting to ten before answering to maintain his composure.

"What did happen? The articles aren't very informative – mostly just malicious gossip about how Sherlock was a fraud – how could they possibly believe that? Anyone who's ever even met Sherlock knows that isn't true. And did Lestrade really think he could be a suspect?"

John hesitates a moment before answering, and Spencer narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"Donovan and Anderson helped there, I think," John finally answers.

"You don't _believe _them?"

Spencer feels anger burning in the pit of his stomach – John was his flatmate, his _friend_, and he really thinks Sherlock is capable of this?

"No," John says. "But Sherlock . . . he admitted it, being a fake, before he – before he . . ." His voice falters and Spencer softens, wilting at the sense of guilt that eats away at him.

"Listen to me, John," he says, "I've known Sherlock for years. Much longer than you. I can personally confirm Sherlock's genius – no way could he have done everything he did without being one. Let me guess, he told you that he researched you before he met you, that's how he knew all those things, right? Well, what about when he met me? He did the exact same thing – told me my whole life story – with a single glance, and there was no way he could've 'researched' that."

"I know. I never believed it. I just wish everyone _else _could see it! You know what they're saying, don't you? About how he orchestrated every crime he helped out on? How he hired a bloody actor to be Moriarty? How can anyone be so . . . so _stupid _as to believe that?"

Spencer's mouth twitches. "You sound like him. Insulting everyone's intelligence."

"Bound to rub off on you after extended periods of exposure, I suppose."

Spencer chuckles, running his hand through his hair as he sets off down the street again. "Trust me, I know. No matter how much you try not to stoop to his level of nastiness, it always comes out eventually."

John snorts on the other end, but the humour dies out almost instantly. Spencer sighs and rubs his face, trying to order his thoughts into a convincing lie.

"John, what really happened?"

"A lot of little things that turned into a big scheme invented entirely by Moriarty."

He pauses in his walk and carefully considers his words. "Yeah, Sherlock texted me about the trial – he said he expected the 'not guilty' verdict. He and I debated his motives – though I think Sherlock already had a pretty good idea by that point. He just needed someone to act as a sounding board, I guess."

"Hardly anyone but you and Mycroft could actually keep up with his line of thought when he was in his element – and I think Mycroft even had trouble sometimes. It's not surprising he went to you to figure it out."

"I don't know about that – I didn't understand what he was talking about at the time."

Spencer crosses the road, not going anywhere in particular, just needing to keep walking – if he stands still, he won't have anything else to distract him from the difficulties of keeping the biggest of secrets. "Will you tell me everything that happened, John?"

* * *

Spencer's sitting on a park bench by the time John finishes his tale, having to of sit down about half way through the telling. He's almost folded onto himself, elbows rested on his knees and hands cupping his chin as he silently processes the whole story, cataloguing it into his memory without daring to filter through it too much – yes, he may know Sherlock's alive, but that doesn't mean he wants to know the details of his 'death'.

"Wow."

John stays silent, apparently struggling with reliving the whole thing. Spencer feels guilty, but it had been necessary – he really does want to know how Sherlock survived something that surely should have killed him. He now has theories, but nothing solid. After a quiet moment alone, he believes he can eliminate a few theories, maybe even nail one down.

"Spencer," the doctor finally says, sounding hesitant and unsure, "I know you and Sherlock have been friends since you were children – but Sherlock never spoke much about anything from before I became his flatmate."

"You want to know how we became friends."

"Yes. Well, if you don't mind, I mean."

Spencer straightens in his seat and leans back, stretching his legs out. "Of course not. You know Sherlock and I went to school together, but we didn't actually get along at first. I thought he was an arrogant jerk who couldn't wait to make fun of me like the others made fun of him, so I didn't speak to him much. I knew the other students ridiculed him just as much, if not more, than me, but I thought it didn't bother him as much as it bothered me.

"It wasn't until I saw him aggravating a group of bullies that I realized he wasn't _trying _to be a complete ass – well, he was, but not in the way I thought – he was just . . . being Sherlock. He told one of the bullies that he was gay, and that Sherlock could tell by the way he folded his sleeves back. He also told another that his pet rabbit had just died, clearly because his belt buckle was off-centre.

"After that, I made an effort to be nicer to him. It wasn't easy – it never is with Sherlock – but we eventually learned how to be decent with each other. Then it was a simple step to becoming friends."

* * *

It's a full hour later when all the stories are told and the weak jokes made, allowing Spencer to finally hang up and have a moment of silence. He remains seated on the bench in the park, knowing he should probably be getting back to work for the huge mounds of paperwork awaiting him, but unable to convince his body to move.

So he simply contemplates in silence, mulling over everything he's learned, trying to gain answers, but not putting much priority on them – Sherlock will, eventually, come back into the public eye, and all will be revealed, after all. He doesn't how long that will be – he isn't even sure what Sherlock's doing, other than it has something do to with Moriarty – but he supposes it doesn't really matter. He now understands the reasons behind Sherlock not telling John about his survival; this way, John can go on about his life, move on, without waiting about for Sherlock's return. Spencer also knows that Sherlock hasn't given _him _this courtesy because he may need him later on (or maybe he doesn't think Spencer needs to move on – he can't allow himself to be completely forgotten, after all) but, again, he doesn't mind.

He isn't sure what's worse, really: thinking Sherlock Holmes is dead, unable to ever return, never to be seen again . . . or knowing he's alive and unable to say anything or contact him properly.

* * *

Two years later, just as Spencer gets home from a particularly grueling day at work, he finds an unexpected visitor in his apartment. He flicks on the light as he goes through the door, barely looking up as he puts down his bag and starts to make his way to his room – only to freeze before he gets halfway.

There, sitting calmly in his favourite chair, is none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. He looks different – longer hair, thinner frame, scruffier clothes – but he also looks exactly the same – curly hair, arrogant features, and sharp cheekbones.

His fingers are, predictably, steepled under his chin, and his piercing eyes are trained directly on Spencer's still form.

"Afternoon."

"Sherlock," he gets out, a mix of relief and a tinge of anger (it has, after all, been just over a year since he has last heard from him, and that itself was only a brief text asking for a quick consultation on the profile of some thug in a an undisclosed part of Europe) as he steps closer to the dead man. "Why are you here? Why now?"

He appears to struggle with the words; the tell isn't much – just a quick tightening of the jaw, flexing of the fingers – but Spencer spots it all the same.

"I need your help. It's time for me to come back."

**I don't know about you (maybe you've already seen the newest episode) but I can't wait to watch 'The Empty Hearse'!**

**Hope this wasn't _too_ bad. Please review!**


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